


yet we must not be foes

by WrathoftheStag



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Being in Denial, Books!, Gifts, Love Notes, M/M, Shakespearean Sonnets, being in denial about being in love, being in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-15 23:19:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19305898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WrathoftheStag/pseuds/WrathoftheStag
Summary: A little vignette featuring one somewhat introspective Aziraphale, and one flirty Crowley.  Takes place after the holy water gift.





	yet we must not be foes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [teluete](https://archiveofourown.org/users/teluete/gifts).



> The title is taken from Shakespeares' Sonnet 40. Happiest of birthdays to my friend, Teluete. <3

**Soho, 1990**

It had been a few years since Aziraphale last saw Crowley, but he could still smell him. How odd, but true. He could smell Crowley as if he were standing right beside him. It was a scent that was all his own, one Aziraphale could recognize at any given point or place in time. Like petrichor in an English forest or embers in a slowly dying fire—that scent of the forever changed wood... that was Crowley.

On nights like that particular one, when everything seemed to align nicely (the customers were less annoying, the sun shone for a tick filling the shop with such heavenly light, his tea was extra flavorful), if only for a moment, Aziraphale allowed himself to think of Crowley. 

So in moments such as those, Crowley occupied Aziraphale’s mind. True, Crowley was usually at the edge of his thoughts, but on certain occasions, Crowley sauntered to the forefront practically poking Aziraphale on the forehead demanding to be remembered, wholly and thoroughly.

Aziraphale sighed contentedly as he switched the bookshop sign from Open to Closed. He pulled down the window shade and turned to look at his store. What a life he had created for himself on Earth—if one could actually consider it a life. He was meant to have a very particular job on Earth, but somehow that had fallen to the wayside as he allowed himself to be immersed in all the beautiful things to be had. Humans were capable of so much if only given a chance, such gorgeous potential. Crowley understood this. Crowley appreciated things in the same way Aziraphale did. And in this regard, he and Crowley were kindred spirits.

He quickly banished the thought. If the powers that be could hear him thinking that, well, there would be hell to pay. Instead, he turned his attention to the boxes that had been delivered earlier. 

Armed with his box cutter from the desk drawer, Aziraphale opened the deliveries, seeing his usual orders, excited for some bookish finds. There was one box, however, a small one, with a return address he did not recognize.

It only took one whiff to know from where it came. Inside was a small book with a notecard. Aziraphale smiled as he quickly opened the envelope.

> Angel,
> 
> Here’s another one for your collection.
> 
> \- C

It was a 1793 edition of Shakespeares’ sonnets. Aziraphale examined the spine and stroked the cover. Not in particularly good shape, but an excellent edition nonetheless. Aziraphale was an angel, but he also worshipped books, and this small gesture touched him greatly.

He then noticed there was something inside. He frowned as he opened to that page and gasped when a black feather fell out and fluttered slowly to the ground. 

Aziraphale bent down and picked it up. He studied it for a moment and knew exactly where it was from; there was no bird in existence that had volunteered that feather. The feather had been inserted at the page on which Sonnet 40 resided. And on that page, was an even smaller note which read: _Don’t do anything with this I wouldn’t do. Or do!_.

"Do shut up, my dear boy," Aziraphale said to himself as he smiled and gently stroked his cheek with the feather. 

He looked at the sonnet and read, “Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all.” 

He smiled again, turned off the shop lights, and went upstairs.

**Author's Note:**

> Here's the link to the actual sonnet. [Sonnet 40: Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/50426/sonnet-40-take-all-my-loves-my-love-yea-take-them-all)
> 
> I guess [petrichor candles](https://www.wickandfable.com/products/petrichor-limited-edition-spring-soy-candle) are a thing.


End file.
